Cop Car
by RPGgirl514
Summary: "If you're looking for a damsel, you've got the wrong girl." AU set during 02x02, Everybody Loves a Clown. Jo and Dean have an unusual first date. One-shot.


_A/N: This is a sort of AU of Dean and Jo's first meeting in 02x02, "Everybody Loves a Clown." In the show Dean admits that it is 'bad timing' so he doesn't pursue Jo at all. For the sake of this story, assume that the events of 01x22 and 02x01 take place sometime in May (in canon it's July), and this occurs in August. I've also assumed that the Impala is repaired by this point. This story is heavily inspired by the Keith Urban song of the same name. After watching the music video, all I could think about was Jo and Dean having a chance to be that carefree. Happy reading. :)_

* * *

Fields of corn and soybeans rolled by in ribbons of green and black, broken up every few miles by the surface of a lake sparkling in the sun or a two-stoplight town, air shimmering up off the asphalt in the August heat as the Impala roared down Interstate 35. Now that they had cleared the Twin Cities, soon farmland would give way to northwoods forest as they neared Duluth, thick with mountain ash, poplar, and Norway pine. Dean didn't mind the drive. It felt good to finally have a destination after spending three months at Singer Salvage. Dad was still gone, but things were finally starting to look up: his baby was as good as new, it was summer, and they had a lead on a woman named Ellen from Dad's old cell phone. Dad's final warning to Dean – "You watch out for Sammy, okay? Watch out for him. And if you can't save him, you're gonna have to kill him" – weighed heavily on his mind, but Sam hadn't seemed any different, which made it easier to not think about.

Sam was dozing in the passenger's seat, leaned up against the door and drooling on a wadded-up plaid shirt that served as a makeshift pillow. The wind through the cracked open window mussed up his little brother's hair. Dean smirked, his expression borne of affection rather than malice, reminded of how a dog would stick its head out the window on a car ride, ears flapping and tongue lolling. He reached over and messed up the part of Sam's hair that the wind had not yet touched. Sam snorted and woke up.

"Dean!" he said, combing his hands through the snarls.

Dean laughed. "Wake up sleepyhead."

Sam shot him a dark look. "Are we there yet?" he asked in true petulant little-brother fashion.

"Two hours out still, assuming we miss rush hour."

"Then what'd you wake me up for?"

"The pleasure of your company, clearly," Dean said sarcastically.

Sam muttered something snide under his breath and stared out the window. "You know, Dean," he said awhile later. "We should probably think about picking up cases again, now that . . ." he trailed off, but Dean heard what Sam didn't say – _now that Dad's dead._

The pain of losing Dad was not as raw as it had been three months ago – so raw that Dean had had a particularly violent outpouring of grief that led to hours of pulling dents out of the Impala and replacing the one window that had survived the original crash – but times like these it still hit him unexpectedly hard. Dean took a deep breath. "Yeah," he said. "I know."

"I, uh – asked Bobby to keep an ear to the ground while we're gone. He said he'd call if he heard anything."

Dean nodded. "Good."

"Look, Dean –"

"I'm fine, Sam. Really." A large oval sign caught his eye. Dean pointed. "Hey, look. Pie!"

Sam followed his and smiled in spite of himself. "Yeah, it's about time for a pit stop anyway."

Dean left Sam to gas up the Impala at the gas station adjacent and disappeared into the bakery. When Sam returned from the restroom Dean was placing two whole pies reverently in the backseat, giving them a look that was usually reserved for a beautiful woman.

"Dude," Sam said. "Stop undressing the pies with your eyes; it's making me uncomfortable."

"Whatever, Samantha," Dean said. "Let's get this show on the road."

* * *

The address Sam had traced the mysterious Ellen to turned out to be a rundown bar a few miles outside of town. "Harvelle's Roadhouse," Sam said, reading the peeling paint of the sign. "Huh."

Dean reached behind the seat and picked up one of the pies. At Sam's questioning look, he shrugged, eyes wide. "What? We come bearing gifts."

"So what, you're just going to knock on the front door and say, 'here's a pie, how do you know our dad?' That's your big plan?"

"Give me a little credit, Sam," Dean scoffed. "I can be subtle." He peered in one dingy window while Sam took a walk around the back, where he found three cars parked in varying states of disrepair.

"Looks like someone lives here," said Sam, meeting his brother around the front again. "Cars parked out back."

"Well, let's see who's home," Dean said. He pushed open the door and sauntered inside.

"Whoa," said Sam, laying a hand on Dean's arm. "Look." He jerked his head toward the pool table, which had a body draped over it.

"Dead?"

"Asleep, I think," Sam said. "I'll go check out the kitchen." He disappeared through the swinging door behind the bar.

No sooner had he left did Dean hear a familiar click and feel the pressure of a firearm against his spine. He raised his hands up slowly, keeping the pie level. "God I hope that's a rifle," he said.

"Nah, I'm just real happy to see you," drawled a female voice. Dean smiled. _Sounds sexy. _"Don't move. Keep your hands where I can see them."

"Not moving, got it," Dean said. "Are you Ellen?"

"I am," said another woman as Sam preceded her back into the bar area, his hands on his head as she trained a .357 revolver on him.

"I come bearing gifts," Dean offered, hefting the pie.

"You can go ahead and set that on the bar," Ellen said shortly. "No sudden movements."

"You got it." Dean edged over and set the box down on the worn bar counter. He was rewarded with a fresh jab to his spine by his as-yet unseen assailant. His eyes flicked to Sam. Sam's expression said,_ go for it; you can take her._

"Allow me to give you some advice, sweetheart," Dean said. "You don't want to put your rifle right up against my spine."

"I don't?" she said, confused.

"No, see; it makes it too easy for me to do this." Dean whirled around and easily jerked the gun from her hands, ready to see just who had gotten the jump on him, but he barely caught a flash of long blonde hair before she grabbed the gun back and hit him in the face with it.

"Dean?" Sam cried out.

"Dammit," Dean hissed, his hand flying to cup his nose.

"Wait, Dean?" Ellen said from behind him, lowering her gun. "As in Dean Winchester?"

"Hear that, Sam? We're famous," Dean quipped as he pinched the bridge of his nose. It wasn't broken and it didn't seem to be bleeding; it had taken him by surprise more than anything.

"You know these guys, Mom?" asked the blonde girl.

"I think these are John Winchester's boys," Ellen said. "Sam and Dean?"

The boys nodded. Ellen stuck out her hand, and Sam cautiously shook it. "Ellen Harvelle. This is my daughter, Jo."

Dean looked back at Jo, and found she was just as pretty as she sounded, and no less dangerous. "Are you gonna hit me again?"

She smiled, a mischievous thing that revealed her two front teeth. "We'll see."

* * *

Ellen fetched a bag of frozen lima beans for Dean's nose and a knife to cut up the pie.

"Jo, we might have some ice cream in the basement freezer," Ellen said, and Jo rolled her eyes and disappeared into the back room. She doled out slices onto paper plates and gave one to each Winchester.

"Ash, you want a piece of pie?" she said, raising her voice.

Sam and Dean looked at each other, puzzled, then spun around on their barstools as the body on the pool table groaned, stretched, and sat up, shaking out a magnificent mullet.

"Nah," he grunted. "I'll take a beer though."

Ellen shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Jo returned lugging a gallon pail of vanilla ice cream, which paired perfectly with the cherry pie. Dean groaned as he took a huge bite, earning him a disgusted look from Sam.

"So, how did you know our dad?" Dean asked, prodding his nose with a finger to test its soreness.

Ellen didn't answer at first. "I know hunters," she said. "They pass through the Roadhouse, pick up leads, get a hot shower, a meal, some beers."

"Our dad was here?" Sam said.

"On occasion," Ellen said.

"John used to hunt with my dad," Jo piped up.

"Shush, Jo," Ellen said sharply.

An awkward silence was broken by the crack of a beer can being opened and Ash taking a long, noisy slurp. Dean saluted him with a forkful of pie. "I dig the haircut, man."

Ash ran a hand over his neck and grinned. "Business up front, party in the back, that's what I'm talking about."

"So what brings you boys out here?" Ellen said.

Sam and Dean looked at each other. Sam asked, "Have you heard of any demonic omens lately?"

"Omens?"

"Yeah, like livestock mutilations, strange electrical activity, freak earthquakes, that sort of thing."

"I know what omens are," Ellen said impatiently. She turned. "Ash, you got anything like that?"

Ash shrugged and took a swig of beer. "I could do some digging." He reached around Ellen and pulled a battered laptop out from under the bar, setting up on the other side of Sam. Dean saw out of the side of his eye that Jo had sat down at a table in the corner of the bar, her long legs crossed at the ankles, propped on the table. She was immersed in a paperback. He scraped up the last bite of pie and made a show of stretching.

"I gotta hit the head," he said. Ellen pointed to a door near the front as Sam and Ash put their heads together. When Dean emerged, he breezed right past them and took the seat across from Jo. She looked up and slowly closed her book, tossing it on the table. Dean caught a glimpse of the title:_ A Voyage of Desire._ The cover depicted a couple in various stages of undress on the deck of a ship. He laughed.

"You actually read this trash?" he said, picking it up and opening it to the page she had dog-eared to keep her place. _"'Veronica's heart fluttered as Rodrigo's strong hands cupped her full breasts -'"_ Jo snatched the book out of his hands, blushing furiously and glaring daggers at him.

"Hey, I'm sorry," Dean said, holding his hands up in surrender. "I just - didn't take you for the romance novel type."

"Oh? What did you take me for, then?" Jo said, more harshly than she intended.

"I dunno, maybe murder mysteries or something," Dean said. "You seem really down to earth, that's all."

Jo didn't know what to say to that. "Thank you."

Dean relaxed. He hadn't completely blown his chance. "Are you a hunter then?"

"No," Jo said bitterly. "But I will be someday. My mom would throw me out."

"Why's that?"

"My father was a hunter," Jo said. She shrugged. "He died."

"Ah," Dean said. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"It was a long time ago," she said. "What about your dad? He's probably on a case, if he's not with you."

Dean's stomach twisted, but the pain was less so than before. "He passed away a few months ago. Car accident." The more he said it, the easier it was to believe than the truth.

Jo reached for his hand. Hers was warm and small. "I'm sorry," she said. "I liked your father. When I was a kid I used to call him Uncle John."

"Yeah," Dean said, his voice rough. He cleared his throat. "Sorry. Can we, uh, talk about something else?"

"Sure," Jo said. "Where are you from?"

"Originally? Lawrence, Kansas," Dean said, taken aback. No one ever asked him that anymore. Most people pegged him as a drifter on sight, and rightly so. "But I haven't really had a home since I was four. Been on the road all my life."

"On the road, huh? That car out there yours?"

Dean lit up. "Yeah, that's my baby," he said proudly. "Fixed her up so she shines like a new penny. I'll have to take you out for a spin sometime."

"I'd like that," she said. She seemed to be waiting for him to say or do something, but for the life of him he didn't know what it was. Finally Jo seemed to decide that he had passed some sort of test. She arched an eyebrow at him. "You know, most guys who come around here think they can get in my pants with pizza, a six-pack, and one side of Zeppelin IV. But you're not like most guys, are you?"

Dean decided not to tell her that she had just described the first page of his dating playbook. "I guess not."

Jo regarded him curiously, trying to figure him out in a look. "So what's your story, Dean Winchester?" she asked, swinging her legs off the table and leaning forward. "How'd you find our neck of the woods?"

Dean kept his eyes firmly fixed on her face rather than letting them stray to the scooped neckline of her white blouse. He gave her his trademark crooked grin. "Are you seriously asking me, 'What's a guy like you doing in a place like this?'"

There was that smile again, radiant and just a little wild. "You betcha."

Dean shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "You any good with that rifle?"

She was taken aback. "What?"

"Can you shoot, or do you just carry that rifle around to smack people in the face?"

Jo flushed. "Yeah, I'm decent."

"She's just being modest," Ellen piped up from behind the bar. "My Joanna's a regular Annie Oakley."

"Mom," Jo said, her blush spreading prettily down the curve of her neck as she ducked her head in embarrassment.

Dean couldn't wipe the grin from his face. "Well, it is only six," he said, checking his watch. "We've still got two hours of good daylight, if you wanted to prove it."

Jo pursed her lips, the ends twitching up. "I _do _like taking hunters down a notch or two." She leaned in again so her mother and Sam couldn't hear. "I know a place up the road. It's far enough the sound won't carry. You in?"

"It's a date," Dean said. He counted it as a victory that she didn't disagree.

"I'll get the recycling out back and pull my truck around," Jo said.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Dean said, holding up one hand. "What kind of knight would I be if I didn't pick up my damsel astride my noble steed?"

Jo arched an eyebrow. "If you're looking for a damsel, you've got the wrong girl."

Dean was torn. The Impala was a freshly primed and polished sex machine - girls dug classic cars, and his baby had often boosted his smooth factor just enough to guarantee he'd get lucky. Without her, he'd have to rely solely on his charm and good looks. Dean decided to take his chances. "Alright."

"Go get your gun, Kansas," she said, cuffing him lightly on the shoulder as she hopped off the barstool and sauntered towards the door. Dean just had enough time to admire how her jeans hugged her hips and legs before she glanced back at him. "You coming?"

* * *

A case of empty beer cans and bottles rattled around in the truck bed as they bumped and bounced down a gravel road. Dean and Jo had stashed their rifles behind the seat of the cab. Dean would have thought a wisp of a girl like Jo would be out of place in a '74 Chevy like this one, but it seemed like the most natural thing in the world for her, one arm slung over the wheel and the other resting easily out the open window.

They had been driving about ten minutes, kicking up a steady cloud of dust behind them. Dean barely caught a glimpse of the barbed wire fence and brown sign that warned off trespassers as they drove by. Someone had used the sign for shotgun practice - the redneck version of 'YOLO.'

Dean felt that uneasy pressure in his stomach that he often got before a hunt. He wasn't opposed to trespassing, though he usually tried to avoid negative run-ins with the law while not on a case. It could be very bad for business if he or Sam ended up wanted under their real names. He glanced over at Jo, who was watching him smugly, as though she knew exactly what he was thinking.

"What's wrong, Kansas; you scared?"

"Never," he replied.

She pulled off into a gravel lot bordered by woods. She leaned over to take her gun out from behind his seat and Dean smelled her perfume, something fresh and warm with a hint of vanilla. Then Jo was out of the truck, taking the crate full of empties from the bed with her rifle slung over her shoulder. She headed for a felled tree trunk about twenty yards away, glancing over her shoulder to make sure he was following her.

Dean put in some ear plugs - Sam, always Mr. Safety, would have been proud - and gave his rifle a once-over, loading it and waiting for Jo to set up ten bottles on the tree trunk. When she had made her way back, he stood with his feet apart and brought the rifle to his cheek.

"Five shots?" he asked.

"Sure," she said, fishing a pair of ear plugs out of her pocket. "You go first."

Dean nodded once and fired. Reload, fire, reload, fire. When he had finished, two of his bottles were still standing. Jo smirked.

"Sixty percent, Kansas. I don't know, maybe you are all talk after all."

She didn't give him a chance to respond, bringing up her own rifle. A steady focus came over her, absorbed in her task, and Dean couldn't tear his eyes away. There was something undeniably sexy about a beautiful woman with a firearm. She looked up, grinning, and Dean realized she had shattered all five of her own, as well as both of his leftovers.

"Now you're just showing off," he protested, but he was smiling too.

"Again, kneeling this time?"

Dean nodded, setting down his gun. "I can set up this time. You need a handicap, little miss," he said, pointing at her. "Cans for you, bottles for me."

"Whatever makes you happy," she said.

There were a lot of things that would make him happy, he thought, but kept those less-than-virtuous thoughts to himself as he set up five cans and five bottles on the tree trunk.

This time Dean hit all five bottles, but Jo missed two of her cans.

"Not so smug now, are you little miss?" Dean said, giving her a playful nudge with his elbow.

"Fine. Last round, prone, as a tie-breaker," she said, head held high as she marched away. He liked this competitive spirit that he had awoken in her. She set up ten cans in front of the trunk this time and returned to his side. They both laid on their bellies in the gravel, elbows propping up their guns.

Jo and Dean both popped three cans each. They stood up and took out their earplugs. Jo brushed off the front of her shirt with one hand, then stuck it out to shake. "Tie?" she said, and Dean shook her hand. He didn't want to let go, and she could tell. Her honey-brown eyes were on fire, her hair burnished gold by sunset. Her lips parted slightly, and she licked them nervously. Dean exhaled and dropped her hand. "Give me your gun; I'll put it away."

Jo put the crate of bottles and cans back in the truck bed and sat on the tailgate. Dean stowed the guns behind the seat and joined her, careful not to touch her.

"I don't want to go back yet," she admitted.

Dean shrugged. "I'm open to suggestions."

Jo gave him a sideways glance, as if she had a few suggestions of her own. "Out here you can see the stars real well, and the planes from the municipal airport," she said. "I come out here for target practice, and to think."

"What do you think about?"

"Where I'm going in life, mostly," Jo said. "Getting out of this town."

"It doesn't seem so bad here," Dean said.

Jo looked at him, surprised. "You don't like hunting?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. That familiar feeling of anxiety that had been ingrained in him since childhood hung over him, the one that kept the family business a secret from everyone. But this was Jo. They'd just met that day, but she had known he was a hunter from the get-go. It was so much a part of him it was a relief that she knew, and yet didn't look at him like he was a freak.

"Don't get me wrong, I love hunting. I'm good at it. And it is nice at times not to be tied down to one place," Dean said. "But what you've got? A home? It's something I haven't had since I was four. Now, I'm not complaining. My life is just fine the way it is, most days. Just don't . . . don't take it for granted, okay?"

Jo looked at him for a long time. "Okay." Then she took his hand and threaded her fingers through his as if they belonged there. Maybe they did.

* * *

Of course, as is the Winchester way, all good things must eventually go to shit.

It _was_ pleasant while it lasted, Dean thought. It was one of those rare perfect moments in which he was utterly free from thoughts of monsters or demons or supernatural creepy-crawlies. Dean sometimes wished he could box up moments like this and keep them in the trunk of the Impala, next to the salt and holy water, like talismans against all the evil in the world. But he was a Winchester, and Winchesters, by some sick cosmic decision, were not allowed to be happy for too long.

Dean and Jo laid back in the bed of her truck, their legs still dangling off the tailgate and their fingers intertwined, listening to the muted cicada song of twilight and talking softly as they watched the lights of the planes above. They noticed the lights first, red and blue, flashing harshly in the darkness. No sirens, though, which made it difficult to tell where they were coming from, or where they were headed. Then came the crunch of gravel under tires and the cicadas abruptly stopped singing.

"Shit," Jo said, and sat up. Dean followed her lead just as a squad pulled into the lot. She hopped down, folded her arms over her chest, and frowned. Dean stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned up against the truck casually. The officer approached, silhouetted in the flashing lights, with a hint of a swagger. From his limited experience impersonating an officer, Dean could tell right off the bat this hotshot thought he _was_ the law. They were of a height, though Dean flattered himself that he was a bit more sturdily built - this guy looked like a strong breeze would blow him _and_ his enormous cowboy hat away.

"Evening, folks," he said.

Dean inclined his head. "What seems to be the problem, officer?"

"Are you aware that this is private property?"

"Which I have permission to be on," Jo interrupted.

A second car rolled up, though this one was unmarked. The man who got out wore a duty belt but was not in uniform. He was a head shorter and at least fifteen years older than the yahoo with the ridiculous hat, and as such he had a headstart on the beer gut.

"Got your message, Deputy. Are these the poachers?" said the plainclothes officer.

"You called the DNR?" Jo said.

Well, this was going south a lot more quickly than usual. Dean took a step forward. Both officers rested their hands on their guns, though the movement was so subtle another man might have missed it.

"Sir, I'd like you to stay where you and take your hands out of your pockets," said the tall one. His voice was pleasant enough, but he meant business. Dean did as he was told.

"Ethan, for God's sake, just look at my ID and we'll get out of here," Jo said.

"Wait a minute, you _know_ him?" Dean said.

"Sure do," Jo said darkly. "Ethan Wiles. We graduated high school together."

"I'm afraid I can't let you go on this one, Jo," said Ethan. The other officer gave him a disapproving stare but said nothing. "John - I mean, Officer Sebow has jurisdiction on this."

Sebow stepped forward. "We've been having problems with wolf poachers in the area," he said. "Were you hunting wolves?"

Jo sighed. "No, we were just shooting at beer cans. Target practice."

Sebow continued as if he hadn't heard her. "As you may be aware, there is no season for timberwolves, and furthermore, they were only removed from the Endangered Species roster earlier this year."

"Look, man," Dean said, stepping forward again. "This has all been a big misunderstanding -"

"Sir, I told you to stay where you were!" barked Ethan. Before Dean even realized what was happening, Dean had his face smushed up against the truck and his wrists in handcuffs. "This is for our safety, and yours," Sebow said as he led Dean to the backseat of the cruiser and seated him inside, away from Jo, but left the car door open so Dean could still see and hear what was going on.

Jo was getting more and more animated, her blonde hair frizzing up in the humidity to halo her face, her hands fisted on her slim hips.

"Miss, if I search your vehicle, will I find anything I shouldn't?" Sebow asked.

"No, because you're not going to search my vehicle without a warrant," Jo snapped. God, she was _stunning _when she was angry.

"Alright," conceded Sebow, but he had a shit-eating grin on his face that Dean did not like at all. "I will, however, see if there is anything in plain view that might constitute exigent circumstances."

Jo stamped her foot and took a few steps toward him as he approached her truck. Dean was almost surprised steam wasn't billowing out of her ears. "Get away from my truck, you bastard!"

Ethan grabbed her before she could throw herself at Sebow. "I'm real sorry about this, Jo," he said, cuffing her. She struggled against her bonds as he led her around the squad car and stuffed her in the backseat next to Dean.

Dean grinned at her. "Fancy seeing you here."

Jo made a frustrated noise. Dean was acutely aware of the length of her thigh pressed up against his own. Jo craned her neck to see that Sebow had reached through the open passenger window of her truck and pulled out the two rifles behind the seat. She groaned, her thin shoulders slumping and a curtain of blond hair falling to obscure her face. Dean wished his hands were free so he could brush it back - girls always seemed to like that.

Sebow beckoned Ethan to come over. The rifles changed hands and Sebow approached the open door of the cruiser on Jo's side. She tossed her hair back and regarded him coolly.

"Can you explain to me why those firearms were not enclosed in cases as per Minnesota law?"

"No," she said. "You got a light?"

"What?"

"A lighter? I could really use a cigarette." Dean snickered. Jo didn't smoke. She was deliberately goading the officer. It was stupid and reckless and bound to get them in even more trouble, but it _was_ funny. Sebow seemed to realize this. He straightened up and slammed her door. Jo's laughter filled the car.

Dean's smile faded. "Your mom is gonna kill me."

Jo seemed unconcerned. "She'll get over it. Eventually." Her eyes sparkled. "Hey, if we made a break for it, how far do you think we'd get?"

Dean gaped at her. "Are you serious? Have you ever tried running while handcuffed?"

She raised an eyebrow, still grinning. "Have you?"

Dean laughed and looked skyward. "You're crazy as hell, you know that?"

Jo shrugged. "It would make for a good story though, wouldn't it?"

Dean couldn't argue with that. The officers had their heads together, deep in conversation where they stood by Jo's truck. Their eyes flicked over towards Jo and Dean occasionally.

"What the hell is taking them so long?" Jo demanded, leaning over Dean to see what the officers were doing. Dean got another heady whiff of her perfume. Definitely vanilla, and something else he couldn't quite identify. He was slightly disappointed when Jo sat back up, twisting around to look out the back window of the cruiser.

Dean followed her gaze. She was watching another plane soar overhead. Red and blue lights flickered over her face, her eyes shining with innocence and freedom and that wild-child streak of hers. He felt something clench in his chest (and if he was being completely honest, in his groin as well). Jo Harvelle was the real deal. Dean had known many beautiful women, but very few like her. She was tough and innocent, sweet and fierce and funny and not at all afraid to call him out on his bullshit. The closest Dean had ever come to something like this was with Cassie, and that had gone sideways on him when he told her the truth about hunting. But that wouldn't happen with Jo, because she already knew. Dean took a deep breath to steady himself. One disastrous date and here he was, already thinking about the future. Best not to get ahead of himself.

He shifted so his leg was pressed up against hers again; casually, of course, but Jo knew exactly what he was up to. She didn't mind.

Her eyes were upon him, and her grin was back. "If you ask me, this is a _way _better date than pizza, beer, and Led Zeppelin," she teased.

"I know how to treat a lady right," Dean said, putting on an air of faked arrogance. "Let her hit me in the face, take her out for target practice, and then get her arrested. That's every girl's dream first date, right?"

Jo snickered. "I think every girl wants to hit you in the face at least once."

"And some guys as well, I'm sure, but I don't swing that way," Dean said. "Look, Jo, I am sorry about how this night turned out. I'll make it up to you."

"Wow, a _second _date? Can I expect the National Guard to get called in for that one?"

"Assuming your mother even lets me in the Roadhouse after this, and that Sam doesn't kill me with his laser eyes of disapproval," Dean said dryly, "maybe we should try something more low-key. Pizza, beer, and Zeppelin IV next time?"

Jo regarded him curiously. "Are you for real, Dean Winchester?"

"What?"

She shook her head. "I guess I was right about you. You're not like most guys."

"Well, I'm enough like most guys to know you're beautiful and I probably screwed up my chance with you," Dean said, looking away.

Jo leaned sideways, shoulder to shoulder, the warm bulk of his bicep comforting. "You really didn't," she said quietly.

At that moment, Sebow came back with Dean's rifle in one hand, Ethan on his heels. The spell was broken.

"Deputy Wiles here is going to take good care of these firearms for you. You can pick them up at the St. Louis County Sheriff's Office at your convenience -_ after _you pay a fine for transporting an unregistered firearm without a case in a motor vehicle." Sebow narrowed his eyes and tore the citation off his notepad. "Just be thankful you didn't leave them loaded. I would have had no choice but to arrest you. As it stands, you're both free to go." He tipped his hat to them as Ethan uncuffed them both. "Mr. Winchester, Ms. Harvelle."

Jo stalked past them and slammed the door of her truck harder than was necessary. Dean jumped in the passenger's side as the Chevy growled to life.

They managed to sneak back into the Roadhouse without anyone noticing.

"Good night," Jo said, turning to leave. Dean caught her wrist and she turned back. He stepped closer, and she didn't step away.

"It sure was," Dean breathed, and kissed her. He brought his free hand up to the base of her neck, relishing the silkiness of her hair and the softness of her lips. The kiss was short and sweet and over before Jo really even realized it was happening. "Good night, Jo."

The next morning, Jo rolled out of bed to find her rifle propped outside her bedroom door with a receipt for her paid citation taped to it. At the bottom, Dean had written, "Rematch?" When she went downstairs for breakfast Ellen told her the boys had caught a case in Wisconsin and gotten an early start.

"They'll be back in a week or so," Ellen said. "How did your shooting match with Dean go?"

"I kicked his ass," Jo said.

Ellen smirked, scooping scrambled eggs out of a skillet. "That's my girl."


End file.
